Monthly Archives: January 2011

The Fountain of Idiocy

A few years ago, I was reading a riveting article about the rise of the diabetic polar bear population in the New York Times on a park bench.  It was a long op-ed piece describing the battles he and his team have in teaching these bears to monitor their blood sugar and how, although they were making major strides, the Alaskan government was going to stop matching their 401Ks.  This piece of writing was so riveting that for eight and a half minutes I didn’t even notice that I was sitting on someone’s three year old child.  He left that park that day in an ambulance and I’m not even sure what happened to him and I don’t even care.  To be honest, I was more appalled that none of the people working at the park had the decency to approach me and tell me that I was suffocating a small child and perhaps crushing a handful of his ribs.  I decided to sue the park and eventually won an undisclosed amount in an out of court settlement for my mental anguish.  Now every time I have to sit down to read, I look once, sometimes even twice before sitting down.  It’s a burden I will carry with me for the rest of my life.

Did any of this happen?  No, of course not.  Why?  Because I function in everyday life like I’m not a prematurely born gorilla smoking heroin laced cigarettes.

The reason I bring this obviously overblown, hypothetical story up is because every once in a while a story hits the news that makes me absolutely loathe human beings.  A few days ago, a video hit YouTube…here’s the link:

 Ok, we see people texting and walking all the time.  Sometimes, we even see these people bump into someone or miss a step.  However, it takes a real helmet-needing, amoeba-brained individual to fall into a giant fountain.  Even so, this part doesn’t even make me upset.  The idiot population has been on a steady rise since, well, forever.  The problem now is that our judicial system backs the nitwits.  This woman is actually suing the mall because nobody came to help her.  In my opinion, if someone really want to help her they would throw her down a flight of stairs and hope that it knocked her brain stem back into place.  That sounds harsh, but what kind of a person would try and use their own moronic actions into a highly profitable situation? 

The woman in question is named Cathy Cruz Marrero and wait for this….she WORKS AT THE MALL!  She wouldn’t say what store she works in, but my guess would be that she puts the frosting on the Cinnabons with an extremely dull knife…because god forbid she had something sharp in her hands.  Think very carefully about the place you go to work every day.  I used to work at a college with a pond in the middle of the campus and, although illegal, I would text as I drove into the campus.  Guess how many times I drove into the pond?  Point being is that I could have probably driven into that place blindfolded, recited how the entire plot of the series “Oz” worked out and fought off a swarm of locusts without driving into the pond.  There is no excuse for this woman’s total embrace of idiocy.

In an interview she claimed she was texting her church group friend about her husband’s birthday.  This woman has a husband.  My guess is that he spends his days making rubber-band balls and bouncing them off of her head at night.  If they have a kid I’ll put money down that he or she dies falling off of a cliff while looking through binoculars.  She wants the parties responsible to be held accountable, but I already think they have.  Cathy Cruz Marrero is held responsible for it,  and the entire internet community has punished her by enjoying a thoroughly pleasant, bellyaching laugh at her expense.  Even more so, she is trying to turn this into some sort of “Texting and Walking” PSA to turn this into a positive.

The only positive that is coming out of her wasting our judicial system’s time and suing the mall is that we will get to see this raisin-brain fall into a fountain on our televisions for a few more weeks. 

My advice:  If you do something stupid, laugh at yourself

 

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In Defense of Snooki

One of my hobbies is listening in on people’s conversations and judging their intelligence based on their subject matter and formation of opinions.  More often than not it leads me to believe that nobody talks about anything of worth anymore.  As a matter of fact, we are specifically told to not discuss things such as politics or religion in public.  This is a far cry from the days when intellectuals went TO public places to discuss politics and religion in order to make change.  Then again I think we would all rather talk about Miley Cyrus smoking pot than how the new health care propositions might change our lives.  In any event, during one of these conversations last Sunday I heard this exchange after a promo for the new season of “Jersey Shore”:

Guy 1 :  “Who’s that little fat girl with all the makeup?”

Guy 2:  “Which one?”
Guy 1: “I don’t know…the one who got punched.”

Guy 2: “Oh, Snooki.”

Guy 1: “I hope she dies in a brush fire.”

First of all, who the hell other than Bambi’s mom dies in a brush fire? 

Second of all, these were two deadbeats wearing Mike Vick jerseys.  The same Mike Vick who was stupid enough to try and steal a watch from an airport screener, later hide pot inside a water bottle trying to get it onto an airplane, then lent his Mercedes to two of his friends who were selling pot out of it and arrested, soon after had to settle with women out of court for allegedly purposely giving them genital herpes and to top it all off he snubbed a Capitol Hill awards ceremony where he was supposed to accept an award for his work with kids.  That’s not a typo:  Mike Vick snubbed an invitation from Capitol Hill, twice, yes, TWICE and later sent his mom to pick up the award.  Oh, and then there’s the deliberate canine mass murder operation he was orchestrating out of his backyard. 

It would seem to me that if some tinsel-brained guidette who enjoys to dance and tanning deserves to die in a brushfire than the quarterback of the Philadelphia Eagles deserves to be castrated, dipped in sulfuric acid and then forced to listen to 30 seconds of Chelsea Handler’s comedy routine.  I’m not saying anyone should have to listen to Chelsea Handler’s comedy, just pushing across the point that in the grand scheme of people we should universally shaking our fists at, Snooki falls somewhere between Michael Cera and whoever created “The Upper Decker.” 

(Sidenote:  Michael Cera can’t act.  At this point in time, Leslie Neilson has more comedic range than this kid.  How many times can we repackage the same awkward, gangly, mumbling virgin?  Michael Cera, you’re nervous and weird…we get it.)

There are a few things that really seem to chafe the inside of people’s buttons when it comes to Snooki and the whole “Jersey Shore” series in general, and understandably so.  However, I believe the venom directed in this direction is terribly misguided and overblown.

First of all, Snooki is NOT Italian.  The little gnome was born in Chile, then adopted and raised by Italian Americans.  Italian-Americans are constantly berating the show and its cast for inappropriately casting a shadow over their heritage and lifestyle.  These same people, however, will talk about “The Sopranos”, “The Godfather” and “Goodfellas” as though they are scripture.  That’s an entirely different conversation altogether, but a contradiction of the belief system is definitely in place.   If anyone should be bearing the burden of this moron representing their race, it should be the people of Chile.  They should open re-open that mine and coax Snooki into it with a red bull and vodka and put the lid on it.

Secondly, she isn’t from New Jersey, she’s from Staten Island.  Listen, she actually does represent the Jersey Shore-loving nitwit crowd extremely well.  Bronzed skin, two foot tall hair, dressed to undress, etc….but the hatred thrown towards New Jersey because of the show is a bit unfair.  Only two of the cast members are actually from the glorious Garden State:  Sammi and The Situation.  If you are wondering how I know so much about this, it’s because I have no girlfriend and a very bare essential social life.  Also, for those so quick to take a jab at the realism of the New Jersey-guido stereotype just remember that there’s a flannel wearing pickup driver spitting tobacco in Nebraska, an open-shirted Cuban wearing pinky rings in Miami, a Hooters waitress who can’t read with dreams of becoming an actress in Los Angeles and a shirtless, drunk being arrested for domestic assault in Alabama all ready to play their part as well.  

People are very quick to claim that it is shows like these that are ruining America, as if television isn’t actually an extremely vivid representation of what we really are.  Currently on our airwaves we have reality shows featuring: a Playboy playmate who married a flame-out ex-football player, the woman who married Russell Simmons, a professional wrestler’s daughter, a certain KISS bassist, and a celebuetant who made herself famous by going to parties and making a porno.  This list doesn’t even include the genital rash of shows that revolve around dating marrying D-list celebrities or eating gorilla genitals to win a million dollars.  Do you know there is a show out there right now called “Bridalplasty?”  It’s about women competing to get plastic surgery for their wedding day.  In one episode the women were trying to complete a puzzle in order to win the “golden syringe” that would be injecting botox into their gluttonous skulls.  This is a snapshot of American life: public fawning over and vicarious living through shallow people who are desperately trying to extend their fifteen minutes of fame in order to achieve the outward appearance of a happy, fulfilling, successful lifestyle while spending so much time looking on we fail to achieve their own version of the American dream.  (I’ve re-read that sentence twelve times and it will make no sense to anyone, but it’s staying in there.)

The cast is stupid and the show is nonsensical, points I won’t refute.  On the other hand I would rather watch an hour of these idiots getting drunk and fighting each other than watch twenty seconds of Ellen Degeneres dance around with her audience to the newest Ludacris song. 

Actually, I think we would all be better off reading a book.


My New Year’s Resolution

My New Year’s Resolution

Most people decide to take something up for the New Year; going to the gym, attending church more or taking up a new hobby.  Over the years I’ve found that it’s easier to give something up than adding another activity to fit in the day.  Last year I had decided to give up fast food.  In retrospect I should have resolved to not lose my job on January 8th, not to move to California or to not trust anyone with an eyepatch.  Needless to say that after losing my job and driving cross-country I didn’t manage to stick to my resolution.  After heading out to Home Depot and Lowe’s in the California area I came to the conclusion that Home Depot will no longer be my spot for hardware and accessories.

You'll Miss Me While I'm Gone

Home Depot – Parking Lot/Atmosphere

The Home Depot parking lot is like a Demolition Derby with cars driven by half-blind Asian women midget on Aderall.  I’m not even sure if there are parking spots drawn up.  You need to know trigonometry and some sort of Chinese origami in order to figure out how to even find your car a spot.  During my first fifteen minutes of driving around I saw an old woman dead in her car, with a “Humphrey/Muskie ‘68” bumper sticker on her car which led me to believe that she had been dead there in that parking lot longer than I had actually been alive. 

Now, if it weren’t bad enough, Home Depot has decided now to bus people in.  Although I’m not quite sure who, exactly, gets bussed into a hardware store, from what I could tell it looked like a mixture of elderly incompetents and alcoholics.  The elderly obviously need their daily trips provided by mass transportation and what better place to bring a flock of senile people built out of papier mache than a superstore full of power tools, do-it-yourself projects and products with warning labels on them.  Alcoholics obviously rack up DWIs and need to get to Home Depot in order to make home-made beer bongs and other tools to fill their bloated gullets with as much alcohol as quick as possible.  Add in the Applebee’s and there all day Happy Hour deal and it was an ideal setup for these lushes. 

Lowes – Parking Lot/Atmosphere

Home Depot makes this place look like a paradise of tools co-managed by nuns and Tim Tebow, owned by God himself.  The parking lot was orderly and from what I saw there was no looting going on anywhere.  The big sign lit up the sky like a lighthouse for the tool-hungry masses.  They had those guys with the airport lights leading cars into spots and through the light amount of controlled traffic.  When I was finally led into my spot by a cherubic old man, I was greeted with a smile and a wave.  I waved back and exited the car, feeling as though I was just valeted at the Venetian.  Walking in I felt so comfortable, I didn’t even lock my car to protect the half-eaten Cold Cut Trio Subway sub in the passenger seat.  The doors swung open for me and I was finally inside.  The smell of freshly baked cookies and hope ran through my nostrils and into my blood stream.   I had entered the mythical, pearly gates of stress-free hardware shopping.

Home Depot – The Help

Once inside, things did not get any better.  Why does every Home Depot look like it houses drug infested raves during afterhours.  Around every corner lies a new smell and the organization is atrocious.   RainMan wouldn’t be able to figure this place out. It’s like the first time you ever grabbed a Nintendo controller and played Zelda.  Except someone slipped you acid and spun you around in a chair for six hours before starting the game up.  Why wouldn’t the plants be in the same section as the trash cans?  Oh, the light fixtures?  They’re obviously over by the concrete.  I managed to grab and a worker hopeful that his knowledge of his place of place of employment would be of some service. 

God Bless this employee, Derrick, the type of kid who struck me as the type of kid who would poop in the urinals in elementary school.   He couldn’t be more than 19 years old, but within a moment of discussion you could tell he had done at least three decades of hard drugs.  He had either slept in the parking lot outside or in a stable the night before because his shirt was beaten and dirty, not to mention two sizes too big.  Apparently, he was at the rave held at the Home Depot the night before and forgot to wipe the coke, painkillers, caulk or whatever else he was inhaling from the tip of his nose.  The entire time I was asking him questions it seemed that at any point he was going to ask me for a few dollars.  Meanwhile, all I wanted to ask him was what the capital of California was, just to watch him bleed from his ears as he tried to squirt a thought out of his brain.  I made a brief quip about the present state of the economy in California after he mentioned the sales. He made a face like I had pulled a rabbit out of a hat, stuck it in his face and had it fart on him. 

He answered the phone during the 30 second conversation we were having and immediately I could tell it was his girlfriend.  The conversation started nice enough but took a turn for the worse and he said something about striking her with a curling iron, again which caught me off guard.  Him striking a woman didn’t put me off because his uneasiness, apparent love of drugs and bruise ridden arms and body had already led me to believe that he had either just fought off a group of gorillas on an African safari, or he was in an abusive relationship.  The real surprising part was that he had just suggested that once before he had struck her with a curling iron…odd weapon of choice, but to each his own.  He hung up the phone, sniffled a bit and after about 35 seconds remembered that he was in a previous conversation with me.  “We’re having a baby,” he half-heartedly mentioned. 

Lowe’s – The Help

Upon entering, I was immediately greeted by a short, pleasant young man, named Tim, who was sharply dressed in the uniforms provided by the store.  He asked how my day was going, and without mentioning my Home Depot experience, said I was doing just fine.  After telling me what I needed he immediately began walking to the aisle we needed to be in.  He pointed others into their respective destinations and seemed like the type of genuine person who would give you the shirt off his back.  On the way to our area, I couldn’t help but notice the store setup.  It made much more sense here to put the plants in the outdoor section with the patio furniture.  Someone had obviously shopped on one occasion and organized the store accordingly.  On the walk, I explained to Tim that I was trying to create a banner stand for the company I had just started.  He then told me that he had been let go from a sales position a few months ago and was still looking for a more steady form of employment.  We exchanged email addresses and after he left me in the right section he made a joke about unemployment rates throughout the country and wished me a good day. 

Conclusion

I will not be going to Home Depot in 2011 and I might be investing into Lowes stock.

Post Dedicated to Derrick….